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enjoy ourselves while the trust lasted. He taught me how to read a balance sheet, more complicated than it looked at first glance, assets and liabilities not always obvious; often they were fungible (and he was careful to define the word), and assigned with an eye always on the taxman and the shareholders. He resolved to teach me how to drink well, drinking well being a skill like anything else, playing the piano or coming but of a fairway sand trap with a five iron. Sloppy drunks were a menace, and none more menacing than teenage drunks, a menace to themselves and everyone around them. Clichés, he called them. Nothing more trustworthy than a young man who can hold his liquor and be seen to hold his liquor. That way, my father said, you gained the respect of older men. That counted for something. That was the world we lived in, like it or not. He smiled and said in a voice not his own, Never cheat at golf; never get rough with women.
    You get a reputation for being sound. You have standing.
    This voice that was not his own puzzled me. Sarcasm lay beneath its skin.
    They won’t worry when you take out their daughters, he went on. And you’ll have the respect of your own cohort. He paused then, his thought unfinished. He was worried that I did not have a close circle of friends, and disconcerted that I seemed to enjoy the company of older people. But he left the thought hanging.
    Girls like it, he said suddenly. You’ll seem older to them. Experienced. Discreet. Capable. Up to the mark.
    Up to the mark, I repeated in a reasonable imitation of his borrowed voice.
    Yes, he said, smiling broadly now. That’s the ticket.
    Sounds boring, I said.
    It does have that disadvantage, he said, rising and stepping to the sideboard, pouring a finger of whiskey. But you can live with it, he said, his back to me as he dropped ice cubes into his glass. He was silent a moment. I envy you your summer. I never had one like it. It’s only a few weeks now, the dances begin. How many invitations do you have?
    About twenty-five so far, I said.
    Twenty-five, he repeated, staring at the ceiling, cradling his scotch in both hands. You’ll need a new tux—
    Mother calls it a dinner jacket, I said.
    Does she? Well, you’ll need a new one for your summer season, and remember to get it cleaned now and then. And don’t forget what your mother told you. Always dance with the deb and the deb’s mother and shake hands with her father and say How do you do, sir, and generally kiss ass up and down the receiving line. I laughed but my father did not laugh with me, absorbed as he was with the shadows on the ceiling.
    He said softly, It is not boring, Wils. Experience and discretion will make you seem to them just the slightest bit dangerous, not a man who’ll say anything that comes to mind, and it’s my guess that dangerous is what you are. You go your own way, that’s for damned sure. Women like danger, my father said and cocked his eyebrow. Let me put that another way. Women like to be around a dangerous man, perhaps a man who seems in his nature to be not entirely reliable. Not entirely predictable in his emotions or anything else. Because, he said, taking a thoughtful sip of whiskey; and he said no more.
    Because what? I asked after a moment.
    Because women like excitement, too, same as the rest of us.
    I said something noncommittal because I did not believe he said what he meant; he had something else in mind but was not ready to disclose it.
    Loyalty also, he added, and when he said it the word had the weight of the world. And then he went to the heart of the matter: You have to exercise some control over yourself or someone else will do it for you.
    Women, I said, catching on at last, though my father’s sidelong glance suggested otherwise. After a moment he said, Women are among them.
    My father had many theories about women, older women and younger women, loose women and modest women, girls he had